


Praise You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the sickfic tropes, Anxiety Attacks, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, I'm gross, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, No worries, Norovirus sucks, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Sherlock Holmes and Trust, Sherlock Kink Meme, Sick Sherlock, Squick, This fic is on the back burner for now but i haven't forgotten it, Tropes 4 dayz, Vomiting, and Fatboy Slim, and not about d/s or praise kinks despite the title, and sickfic, h/c is literally the only genre i write, oh man why did i even write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:48:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3378746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old fill for the Sherlock Kink Meme...</p><p>Original prompt: “Sherlock gets the norovirus. Sherlock is an emetophobe who has a panic attack whenever he thinks of vomiting, never mind when he's so sick his body is trying to eject food his stomach does not contain. Cue comfort from John?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A (very) old fill for a prompt from the Sherlock kink meme that i was too afraid to ever post...*runs and hides*
> 
> Inspiration: Praise You: Fatboy Slim. There's a link to the song at the beginning. Mind all the tags folks, this is gonna get pretty gross.

[Praise You: Fatboy Slim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_X_1o3Qw4KM)

Sherlock Holmes was bent over inspecting a very large bloodstain on the carpet of a dilapidated old hotel when he straightened up and swallowed, twice. His ivory complexion was tinted with sudden grey. Both John and Detective Lestrade asked Sherlock what was wrong but he did not answer them. 

A second later his ocean eyes widened and he darted out of the room. John told Lestrade to wait there and followed his friend trailed Sherlock’s great sweeping belstaff down the narrow hallway into the loo all the way to the last stall on the left. 

The detective dropped to his knees to gargoyle hunch over the cracked toilet shaking shaking shaking as he gagged. John crouched behind him and pulled his scarf away just as he started to retch. 

Oh god, Sherlock choked right before he vomited several times in a row without pause. It was very violent. 

For fucksake Sherlock take a breath, John swore as the detective threw up a fifth time splattering coffee and bits of toast all over the toilet rim. His friend's respiration rate was too fast and too shallow, he was hyperventilating. 

Does your stomach hurt? John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

Chest pain? John reached out to flush the toilet. Sherlock nodded frantically.

Is it crushing or stabbing? 

Crushing. Sherlock coughed and gagged. i can’t breathe…

Yes you can, John said quietly as he edged into the stall next to his friend. You’re having an anxiety attack. You need to get your breathing under control or there’s a chance you could aspirate.

 _John._ Sherlock’s face was the colour of gone-off milk but his mouth stood out red and wet and gasping.

Shh, you’re alright. Let’s get your coat out of the way yeah. John reached for the sleeve of Sherlock’s belstaff and tugged, and the detective at least lowered his arms for a moment so that John could take his coat off. Is it alright if i touch you, John asked quietly. Will that help at all. 

i don’t know, Sherlock moaned softly. He coughed retched hard and spat into the water before gritting his teeth like he was in pain. His respiration rate was still too high and his eyes were wild, lost.

Ok. Ok. John moved so he was sat cross-legged behind the other man. i’m going to try something. He leant forward so that his chest was nearly touching Sherlock's back and groped for Sherlock's sweaty hand. It was too warm, fever warm. Now breathe, John ordered. With me. Just follow me. Squeeze my hand if you need to, but breathe with me. He drew the air deeply and slowly in through his nose let it out through his mouth setting a pace for his friend to follow. Sherlock choked and gagged the first time but managed it the second, and he seemed to settle down a bit. 

For a minute and a half the only sound in the small room was that of the two men's combined breathing,

one pattern relaxed deliberate calculated the other pattern

patchy intermittent and strangled but

as the seconds stretched on Sherlock's uneven respiration gradually began to line up with John's.

Good, John said. You’re doing well. Here, wipe your face and i’ll get you some water. He tried to give Sherlock a tissue but the other man wouldn’t take it just knelt there gripping the porcelain so hard that his knuckles had gone white gripping John's fingers so hard it was painful. John gently swiped at Sherlock’s mouth with the tissue and dropped it into the bowl then pressed the backs of his fingers against the detective’s cheek. 

You _have_ got a fever, John said. You’re ill. 

i can’t be. The other man jerked away from John’s touch. Oh christ i can’t be ill not now not like this—his eyes began to glaze over but John reached for his hand again. 

Squeezed.

Shut up and listen to me, John ordered. 

Sherlock shut up.

i know what you’re going through is bloody terrifying, John went on, but it will. not. kill you do you understand. It will pass. Just keep breathing.  
Sherlock closed his eyes before turning back to face the toilet. He made a soft sound of distress and wrapped free arm around his middle but he didn’t vomit.

So, do you have any idea as to what set this off? John asked. The anxiety attack, i mean.

i _hate_ vomiting, Sherlock choked. i can’t…his voice cracked and he fell silent. 

Do you have a phobia? John pressed. His friend nodded. 

i see, John murmured as he let go of Sherlock's hand. i’m going to get you cleaned up and take you home. Lestrade can finish up here and get back to you in a few days.

A few days? Sherlock probably meant to sound angry but his voice was like water. John laughed hollow.

i’ll ring Mycroft and ask him to send a car. 

i hate asking that pompous pig's twat for favours, Sherlock snarled faintly. John smiled despite his concern, glad that Sherlock at least had the presence of mind to call his brother names. 

i know, mate. But we need to get you home. He patted his friend’s shoulder and pulled out his phone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went pretty minimalist here, i may go back and fix some things. No i don't use quotation marks. i think they're messy. Yes i use weird grammar. It's not for everyone. (It's mostly for me, honestly)
> 
> In this fic Sherlock and John have been friends for a few years, and they have become close enough that when Sherlock is suffering (physically or mentally) he will sometimes seek contact and/or comfort from John and only John. He doesn't really like being touched by other people. Maybe Mrs. Hudson. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, all feedback is greatly appreciated. Chapter two is done, just needs to be cleaned up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little gnarly. Y'all have been warned.
> 
> *i hope that there are no medical inaccuracies here...if you spot one, please let me know.

Thirty eight point three, John said as he pulled the thermometer from his friend’s ear. i think you’ve got a virus. There’s a nasty one going round London right now with the exact symptoms you’re displaying. 

Lovely, Sherlock grumbled into the toilet bowl. How long does it last.

Usually between two and four days. So far i’ve personally admitted nine patients to hospital because they couldn’t stay hydrated enough on their own, but a few of them had immune disorders and three were children. John put the thermometer back in the medicine cabinet and sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking at his patient. Sherlock was curled around the toilet shaking and breathing hard with a quilt bunched up around him, having come down from his third panic attack a few minutes earlier.

Not going to hospital, the detective said softly. All the fight had gone out of his voice.

i’ve already told you, i’ll take care of you, John told him. It might take you a bit longer to feel better because you haven’t eaten or slept in what—three days? Sherlock shrugged and looked away from John’s reproachful glare. i can set up an i v if it’s necessary, the doctor went on. Fluids and rest are probably all that you’ll need to recover. But you’ll also need to work with me, Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but suddenly wrapped his arms around his middle and bit his bottom lip until it tore and bled. John could hear the detective’s guts growling.

Is your stomach cramping? John raised a hand to steady Sherlock as he stumbled to his feet but he flinched away from John’s reach and slammed the toilet seat down.

Get out, Sherlock hissed and his eyes turned to flint. 

John did, but he only went as far as the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, mentally adding abdominal cramping and diarrhoea to his patient’s symptoms. Then while he searched through the cabinets for his ORS packets, John set up a care plan in his head to treat an already malnourished and exhausted patient presenting nausea vomiting diaorrhea stomach cramps muscle aches and fever, and then adjusting the care plan to accommodate a patient with severe emetophobia who wanted and did not want to be left alone, who wanted and did not want to be touched, then John factored in the patient’s pain level and pride and everything else rolled up into the giant knot of raw nerves that was Sherlock Holmes. 

John took a drink from the glass ran his hand through his hair and considered his options.

_John_ , Sherlock called weakly. John recognized Sherlock’s tone of voice immediately ( _i’m going to throw up right now_ ) and grabbed the nearest bin. He dashed to the bathroom and slid the bin across the tiles to the other man who vomited into it before he could even pick it up. 

John’s heart ached. He stood in the doorway for a moment before deciding that he’d have to invade Sherlock’s privacy in order to ensure his safety, and that meant having to see his flatmate sat on the toilet throwing up and having a panic attack all at once. John had seen much worse of course but he doubted Sherlock would take comfort in that. 

i’m coming in, John announced. Sherlock was too busy being sick to reply. He tried to spit into the bin but he gagged and choked and the fear snapped back into his eyes like a flipped switch. You’re alright, John said. He took another step forward to put his hands on his friend’s bony shoulders. Remember the breathing thing. You can get through this. Sherlock made an upset little sound and retched again spitting up dark green bile. John squeezed his shoulders a bit harder but not enough to hurt.

Breathe with me, he instructed. Just like last time, in through your nose and out through your mouth. John could feel the hard muscles of Sherlock's deltoids working as he tried to get control back. John could feel when Sherlock finally did get control back, when he could match John's rhythm. It was over more quickly than the last time, and Sherlock was left hunched over on the toilet with his arms around his middle. But his breathing was deep, and even. John flushed the toilet and brought him a tissue and a glass of water and Sherlock accepted both without meeting John's eyes.

You’re ill; you have nothing to be ashamed of, John told him. Can you get yourself cleaned up while i find you some new clothes?

Of course i can, Sherlock snapped. Leave, please. 

John did, but he left the door open. He went into Sherlock’s room and took some clean pajamas from his dresser fought the urge to race back to check on him. Sherlock was accepting John’s support fairly well but John knew that the detective would not tolerate pity under any circumstances. 

He forced himself to walk slowly back to the loo and found his flatmate perched on the edge of the tub, stripping off his vomit-splattered trousers. He moved very slowly as though every small movement made all of his muscles ache, further draining him of energy. John went over to press a hand against his forehead.

You feel warmer, he said quietly. i’d like to get you more comfortable, and check your temp. Sherlock didn’t say anything but he watched John move around the small room watched him collect the thermometer and clean flannels and the quilts he’d brought in.

Fuck, Sherlock gasped and John spun around to see him dropping to the floor in front of the toilet and vomiting so forcefully that it splashed back into his face his shirt his hair. 

Ok. John went over to him. It’s ok. Sherlock whimpered softly, fumbling as he tried to throw up and get enough air and hold his hair back all at the same time. i’ve got it, John said as swept his fingers across his friend’s forehead pulling back the sweaty curls clinging there shielding them as the detective retched again. 

It got in my eye, Sherlock said breathlessly.

Don’t talk. John slid down to the floor without letting go of Sherlock’s shoulder or his hair. Keep your eyes closed. It’ll be over soon and we’ll get you some saline. 

It burns, Sherlock hissed.

Well yeah, vomit’s pretty acidic. John batted at the toilet roll until the wide white ribbon spooled out onto the floor. He ripped two lengths in half folded them both over and handed them to Sherlock. Then he went to the sink to wash his hands. 

You’re handling this very well, he told his friend as he searched for his saline eyedrops. Sherlock made a negative sound and gritted his teeth with his eyes still shut tightly. Tilt your head back and open your eyes, John said. Sherlock did as he was told, and John squeezed the saline solution into his friend’s reddened eyeball. The excess fluid ran down Sherlock’s temple mingling with sweat and tears. Does that feel better? John offered him a wet flannel.

Yes. Sherlock accepted the cloth and wiped his face. Thank you, he added after a moment, and John smiled. 

Anytime, he said. Now, do you want me to leave you alone? Sherlock seemed to consider for a long moment, and then he shook his head. Good, John said as he handed Sherlock the glass of water. i’d rather stay where i can keep an eye on you. Take a few sips of that and see if you can keep it down. John set the bin under the bathtub faucet and turned on the cold tap.

You don’t have to do that, Sherlock said to him.

i don’t mind. John swirled the water around in the bin and emptied it down the drain. 

It’s disgusting. 

i suppose. John shrugged. But between working at the clinic and working with you, i deal with disgusting pretty much every day. It’s never bothered me. And it’s never bothered you, until now.

But i don’t. Want you to see me like this, or. Sherlock’s nose wrinkled up. Smell me like this. 

i’ve smelled worse mate, John reassured him. Hell, i smelled worse two days ago when we walked into that room with decaying human organs nailed up all over the walls. 

But this is _me_. 

Yes, and? John wanted to snap but he kept his voice level. Look, he said, this whole thing will be a hell of a lot easier on both of us if you put your pride on the shelf for the next thirty six hours, and let me help. Just tell me what hurts, ask me for what you need, and don’t hide anything from me. 

Sherlock didn't respond.

i can make this whole thing more comfortable for you, if you’ll let me, John assured him. i know you’ve already deduced that i’ve had a lot of. Experience with anxiety attacks. i know how fucking terrible they are, especially when the people around you don’t believe you or don’t understand. i can’t really speak for phobias, but…John’s voice trailed off.

You seem very surprised that i have one, Sherlock remarked. Emetophobia is uncommon but far from unheard of. 

Well i’ve watched you examine vomit at a crime dozens of times before, John said. And that time i got food poisoning you cleaned up after me, and it didn’t seem to upset you then. 

It doesn’t matter unless i’m the one who’s ill, Sherlock muttered. i despise feeling sick. If i could choose between being violently ill or getting stitches in my fingertips without anesthetic, i’d choose the latter. 

Is the nausea constant right now? John asked gently. 

More or less. Can’t you give me something for it.

It would be irresponsible of me to medicate you, John explained. An antiemetic or antidiarrhoeal would provide short term symptom relief, but if you use medicine to stop your body from eliminating the virus then it may prolong the symptoms themselves. i’ll only resort to drugs if you get too dehydrated, or if the symptoms become very severe. 

They _are_ very severe, Sherlock snarled at him. Surely a dose of promethazine

You were the one who suggested that i officially become your g p, John interrupted. i spent ages convincing the higher ups that taking my best friend on as a patient was not a conflict of interest, so if you thought that you could get any drug you wanted just because i’m your mate then you are sorely fucking mistaken Sherlock Holmes.

John’s normally temperate eyes suddenly had a fire in them that usually only surfaced when Sherlock’s health or safety was in question. 

But i can’t stand this, Sherlock said. i’m in hell. And i’ve been there before, John. His voice was very small. 

Oh, Sherlock…John sat on the edge of the tub and put a hand on the detective’s back. Sherlock didn’t flinch at the contact so John began to rub the heel of his hand in a circle around Sherlock’s shoulderblades. He could feel his friend still trembling like an animal that hears thunder in the distance that cannot be soothed out of its fear.

i can give you a sedative, the doctor said at length. Normally i would never sedate a patient with nausea and vomiting but. Given your situation and your high drug tolerance, i think a small dose of diazepam or lorazepam would be beneficial. i’ll just need to keep a very close watch on you. 

You’re doing that already, Sherlock pointed out as John got to this feet. 

Then everything should go just fine right? John smiled at him. Sherlock gave John the most withering look he had ever seen the detective pull and it made him laugh. 

The little joy sound rang high against the walls in the small room.

 

Sherlock tolerated the ativan well. John started him on a single milligram tablet and gave him another several hours later, and Sherlock’s overwhelming all consuming panic began to fade. The full-blown anxiety attacks tapered off into generalized anxiety, and while Sherlock was still agitated he was no longer in danger of hyperventilating or aspirating. 

The other symptoms didn’t abate as easily. 

For the first hour or two Sherlock alternated between bouts of vomiting or diarrhoea every fifteen minutes but after a while the time between episodes began to lengthen. John sat up all night with him, either by his side or just outside the bathroom door keeping him (company, hydrated, sane) until the dry heaving slacked off enough that Sherlock could rest could let his guard down a bit more. When he dozed off propped against the toilet John nudged him awake saying come on mate you need some real sleep. 

Sherlock startled a bit when John spoke and looked around. His eyes were reddened and dull and glazed over like sea glass and there were grey semicircles under them. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

You’re exhausted, John said. Your body is exhausted. You need to get some rest. 

Your deductive skills grow ever sharper, John Hamish Watson, Sherlock sighed into his folded arms. But John grinned because it was the most spirit that his friend had shown all night. 

You should at least try to lie down, he suggested but his friend pulled a face at the idea.

When i lie flat it worsens the nausea and when i close my eyes the panic starts up again, he sighed. i can’t. 

Do you want to lean back on me and rest for a while, John asked. Would that help? Sherlock nodded. A wisp of a smile curled up one corner of his mouth. John scooted backwards across the cold tile until his back was wedged against the corner formed by the wall and the tub. Come here, he said softly, and Sherlock shuffled backwards into his open arms without another word.

John cocooned his friend in the quilt and guided Sherlock’s head down to rest on his shoulder. 

Sherlock smelled like sweat and bile and lost salt but John ignored all of it, and held him close. 

Within three minutes both men were asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *i'm not trying to stir up controversy or anything, but people getting over phobias through exposure is a real thing. If you want to see it used in a clinical situation with ophidiophobia (fear of snakes) check [this cool shit out.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKTpecooiec&list=PLb6Jsd6tDlJ8NZKoSN_VOC-sMZ86vBTDF) Yeah the video quality is bad, it's the best copy i could find. Also it's like 11 minutes long so skip to around 6:00 if you want it short and sweet. 
> 
> And yes i know that one can't really compare ophidiophobia and emetophobia because having a fear of something that your body might do involuntarily at any time is probably a hell of a lot worse, unless you're an ophidiophobic living smack dab in the middle of Australia or something.
> 
> i’ve also read a few recounts from people with emetophobia who were more or less “cured” when they got food poisoning or a stomach flu and just had to wait it out. Now i’m not a doctor or a psychologist so i am in no way implying that everybody with this phobia can be “cured” or should be, because i don’t judge people, we all have our issues, etc…but it’s the route i took in this fic. i feel like if Sherlock had John (and some nice sedatives) there to support him he might be able to deal with a phobia like this. Also my thinking is that since John is a motherfucking doctor he would either medicate or admit Sherlock to the hospital if he deemed it necessary. Safety first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folk there's a fairy graphic (and hopefully accurate) description of an intravenous catheter insertion here. If you don't like reading stuff with needles you might want to skip it. i hope this shit is medically accurate so if anybody sees any flaws please let me know.

He’d stopped going on about getting back to the case, 

and John was worried. 

He knew better than to enjoy the silence when Sherlock’s rants (more people could die John/criminals don’t take sick days John/i’ll lose all my threads and the trail will go cold John) tapered off because the lack of mania in Sherlock Holmes when there was a mystery to be solved was a mark of just how exhausted and dehydrated he was getting. 

At least he hadn’t had an anxiety attack since midnight. The ativan kept him calm enough and he could rest for longer periods of time but his fever hadn’t abated and he was still alternating between sitting in front of the toilet and sitting on top of it every half hour or so. 

Losing fluid that he couldn’t afford to lose. 

His eyes had grown very dull. He was lethargic.

John monitored his temperature gave him sips of oral rehydration solution and rubbed his back while he heaved the ORS back up into the toilet. Watched him grow steadily weaker despite John’s best efforts.

 

It was half past one in the morning. The flat was dimly lit by one lamp the telly and the central yellow glow of a fire in the grate. 

The doctor was sat in his chair with his chin on his hand a book lying forgotten in his lap. He was seriously contemplating getting ahold of some intravenous fluids but he did not want to leave his patient nor did he want to enlist their landlady’s aid and risk exposing her to such a vile illness. 

The patient was languishing dramatically on their sofa wrapped in a rainbow of Mrs. Hudson’s quilts when he suddenly pushed himself upright, attempted to stand. John’s hawk eyes snapped to him as he stumbled and the doctor was at his side in half a second steadying him holding him up. 

Easy, John said. What’s wrong?

i got lightheaded, Sherlock mumbled into John’s neck. i need to piss, i’ve been meaning to get up for an hour now. 

Why didn’t you ask me to help you. John got his hands around Sherlock’s biceps ready to catch him if he went down. Just put your head on my shoulder and stand still for a moment, he ordered. 

Let go. Sherlock tried to pull alway from him. 

Ok but if you faint right now and you piss yourself i’m not cleaning it up, John half-threatened. But he didn’t let the other man go of course he didn't because John Watson would never endanger his patient no matter how uncooperative and irritating and irrational said patient became. Sherlock huffed and relaxed. John could hear the detective scowling his most indignant scowl.

But then Sherlock’s wire arms snaked around John clinging to him letting the action speak ( _i’m sorry, i’m trying_ ) so John gave him a little squeeze back ( _it’s fine, i know you are_ ) and the two men stood quietly in the middle of the sitting room in the middle of the night while planet earth shallow seas rolled soothing from the television. 

i don’t see black spots anymore, Sherlock said after a few seconds. i’m fine. John just tucked his arm around the detective’s narrow waist and steered him towards the loo without comment. 

Are you still dizzy at all? John asked when they got to the bathroom door. And be fucking honest with me Sherlock; i’ll not have you tipping over in the loo and cracking your head on the sink. 

i am, the other man muttered. Just a bit. John followed him into the room and Sherlock didn’t stop him, either because he understood that he did actually require supervision or more likely because he didn’t have the energy to argue.

Sherlock Holmes not having the energy to argue was a pretty bad sign. 

His chalk-pale cheeks pinked up when he got to the toilet and John didn’t leave him. 

Can you stand? John asked. Sherlock’s cheeks darkened and he nodded, lifted the seat up. His bottom lip was trembling like he was on the verge of tears. Hey, John said softly. Sherlock, it’s only me. 

i know, Sherlock bit out. 

And you’ve helped me take a piss before. It’s not a big deal. It’s about safety. 

i know, Sherlock growled. He swayed on his feet a bit and had to grab onto the counter. John clamped his hands under his friend’s arms steadying him keeping him balanced. 

i’ve got you, John said, stepping back without releasing his hold. Just hurry up and go. Sherlock huffed and tugged his pants down. John stood there with him while he took the longest piss that John could remember witnessing, but the doctor made a mental note that Sherlock hadn’t urinated in a few hours. He glanced into the bowl and frowned when he saw how yellow the detective’s urine was.

Bit not good, Sherlock remarked as he reached out to flush the toilet. 

No, John agreed. Don’t worry; we’ll get you sorted soon.

i’m not worried, Sherlock insisted.

John was.

He texted Mycroft.

_Sherlock’s in pretty bad shape. Will you have someone bring a few i v infusions by? He might need two or three._

_Right away. I was unaware that his illness is serious enough to require one._

_Normally it wouldn’t but he was exhausted and dehydrated to begin with._

_I’m a bit disappointed in you, doctor._

_In me? Sod off, you know how he can be. I’m not his bloody handler._

_I disagree._

John shoved his phone into his pocket and turned back to his patient, who was now hunched over the sink washing his hands. He looked utterly defeated.

i’m going to start you on i v fluids, John told him. You’re getting too dehydrated. Plus i can give you ativan and antipyretics that way so you won’t have to worry about keeping a pill down. Sherlock nodded his assent. He barely reacted at all when John sat him on the edge of the tub and took his temperature (39) and blood pressure (85/50) and pinched the skin on the back of his hand. It maintained a peak for a moment before settling back, confirming the doctor’s diagnosis. 

Moderate to severe dehydration, Sherlock observed as he watched his skin flatten. Closer to moderate though. 

You were dehydrated to begin with, John remarked. And your fever is getting worse. He could have gone on—maybe if you looked after yourself you wouldn’t be so miserable right now for christ’s sake Sherlock you can’t just ignore your body like that no matter how important the Work is to you god i hate watching you suffer like this but you just don’t fucking care do you—but instead John took two steps forward to stand in front of his friend. Rested his hands on his friend’s shoulders. 

i know that this is really difficult for you, John murmured. You’ve done very well so far.

Sentiment, John, Sherlock said. But he did not pull away. 

It’s not sentiment, it’s fact, John countered. Anyway you’re going to be fine in a few days, he said to the top of Sherlock’s head because the man would not look at him. Then you can get back to the case. But right now you need to lie down, and after i get the i v sorted we can sleep for a while.

You can’t put me down for a nap like a bloody three year old, Sherlock protested before he yawned widely, making his friend smile. 

i can and will. Do you want to go to your bed or the sofa, John asked. Sherlock didn’t answer but stood up very slowly and went out into the sitting room. John followed him. Helped him sit in his chair. Stripped the sheets from the sofa. Tucked clean sheets around the cushions. 

You needn’t stay down here with me, Sherlock said as he settled onto his makeshift bed. i can manage.

You really can’t. John rolled out his camping mat and put his sleeping bag on top of it.

Sherlock looked daggers at him, and John frowned. 

Even if i felt comfortable leaving you alone i wouldn’t, he said, a bit more sharply than he meant to. We’re not starting this again ok. John got that guarddogish look in his eyes again and his friend sighed a defeat, flopping down in a bundle of pale limbs and sweat soaked bedclothes. John pulled the bucket (clean, sanitized) up where Sherlock could reach it and pulled the quilts (laundered, dried) up around Sherlock’s shoulders.

The bell rang and John stroked Sherlock’s hair twice before he went downstairs. Accepted the packages from Anthea, commented that it must be a slow night in the british government for Mycroft to send her on an errand like this, made her smile, thanked her. 

Dashed back up the stairs back to his patient partner best friend, _his_

John set the bags down on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to wash his hands. They were getting raw and dry from constant scrubbing but John couldn’t do much about that; his hands needed to be clean. Even if he was already infected. 

Which was essentially a guarantee. 

Considering that, John realized that he didn’t mind so much because yes he would be miserable for seventy two hours but  
a. his immune system was not already compromised and he  
b. had already called in to work for the next few days and  
c. Sherlock for all of his frigidity actually had a decent bedside manner when John was involved, and would care for him if he needed it.

John was smiling, thinking of him. The doctor dried his hands and returned to unpack the bags, organize the packages, pull the i v stand out of the closet. Sherlock was curled around a pillow on the couch watching planet earth on the telly. John brought him a cup of ice chips told him to try one every few minutes if he could, and Sherlock grumbled into his pillow but reached his long white fingers out for the cup.

The doctor patted Sherlock’s shoulder and turned his attention to the i v. He pulled on his gloves. Hung the bag up on the stand opened the tubing sets spiked the bag and connected the rest of the tubes and checked for bubbles. He could have done it asleep and blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.

The veins are better in my left arm, Sherlock informed him.

i’d better use a smaller catheter then. John suppressed a sigh as he unwrapped the cannula trying not to think about the abuse that his friend’s poor veins had endured over the years. He applied a tourniquet to his patent’s left forearm probed around the white skin swabbed the site and put the needle in quickly. He got flashback and advanced into the vein, making sure the cannula was in far enough before he fixed the needle. Sherlock didn’t move but his ocean eyes were tracking John’s hands, tracking the needle with fascination.

You’re much faster than the doctors at the a  & e, he observed. John grinned.

That’s because i’m better. John pressed his thumb down on Sherlock’s vein and withdrew the needle. And i can pick a site in a few seconds. Sherlock hummed his approval. Then he suddenly grimaced, and bit his lip.

i feel sick, he warned and John reached his foot out to scoot the bin closer. 

Almost done, he said calmly. Just hang on. Within the next thirty seconds John had the tourniquet off the saline lock and dressings in place and the tubing inserted into the catheter hub. While Sherlock pulled the bin into his lap John flushed the line started the drip and sat down on the coffee table across from him. 

Sherlock was bent over the bin and beginning to pant. His eyes were glazing over.

Sherlock. John raised his voice a bit not enough to startle his friend but enough to get what was left of his attention. Sherlock looked up and their eyes locked blue on blue. Remember what you did before, John reminded him. Breathe for a count of four if you can. 

The detective’s eyes squeezed shut but he nodded and took a shaky breath in through his nose

out through his mouth.

John breathed with him.

The fluid dripped.

Good, John said after a minute. You’re doing well. 

Sherlock made a strangled little sound and spat but he didn’t throw up. John moved from the coffee table to the sofa. Sat next to his friend. Waited with him.

After a few minutes Sherlock put the bin down and collapsed back with his cathetered arm dangling over the edge of the sofa. He was shaking. 

You ok? John handed him a wet flannel. Sherlock shrugged, wiped his face. i’ll give you some more ativan and an antipyretic, and if you’re up to it i can give you a sponge bath. We need to keep your fever under control. John smoothed his friend’s hair back from his sweaty forehead, and to his surprise Sherlock leaned into the touch.

 _i trust you._ John felt those words burn in his head as clearly as if the detective himself had spoken them. But he hadn’t said a word. 

John knew that he should be getting up bringing more ice chips medicating his patient but he allowed himself a few quiet minutes on the couch with his friend, stroking Sherlock’s hair until he fell asleep beneath John’s hands until John could lean forward to press a quick kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head _you are everything to me, do you hear me? Everything._


End file.
